The CO2 from the fire extinguisher settled over the windowsill like a false frost, the air in the depot office bitingly cold. Leo stood heaving, the empty canister dangling from his hand. The tendrils of fog had recoiled from the blast, sizzling back through the seals as if scalded.
For a moment, there was silence. The frantic scratching on the roof ceased. The thumping against the walls stopped.
It was a victory. A small, desperate, and terrifyingly finite one.
He was out of CO2. The crowbar felt absurd. He was a man with a spoon trying to hold back the tide.
His eyes darted around the office, looking for anything else he could use. His gaze landed on the industrial-sized drum of moisture-absorbent desiccant beads Davey used to keep the shipping container interiors dry. It was a long shot, a stupid shot, but it was all he had. If the mist hated the dry, freezing CO2, maybe…
The radio on the desk crackled, not with a voice, but with a burst of pure, screaming static. It lasted for three seconds, then cut out. In that brief, ear-splitting noise, Leo could have sworn he heard a single, clear word buried within the chaos: "—Jones—"
Elijah.
The static was followed by a new sound. Not from the radio. From outside.
It was a child, crying.
The sound was faint, muffled by the fog and the walls of the office, but unmistakable. It was a young boy, sobbing in sheer, unadulterated terror. It was coming from the direction of the houses just beyond the depot fence.
Leo's blood ran cold. He knew that sound. It was the sound Maisie had made when she'd had a nightmare. A sound that bypassed all reason and went straight to the primal instinct to protect.
The things were out there. And they had found a child.
The scratching on the roof began again, but it was different now. It was lighter, faster. More deliberate. It was no longer trying to break in. It was… tracing. He could hear it moving in a specific pattern, its claws scraping over the corrugated metal.
Scritch-scritch-scratch. Pause. Scritch-scratch.
It was repeating the same pattern. Over and over.
A cold dread, deeper than any fear of physical harm, seized him. It was communicating. It was trying to tell him something. Or show him something.
He looked down at the cold, dead screen of the computer monitor. In its dark reflection, he saw the faint, ghostly outline of the "#1 Dad" mug.
The child's crying intensified, a raw, heartbreaking sound that was suddenly cut off with a soft, wet gulp.
Silence.
The scratching on the roof stopped.
The silence that followed was the most horrifying sound yet.
Leo stood alone in the freezing office, the empty fire extinguisher in one hand, the crowbar in the other, and the image of his daughter's face burning in his mind. The thing on the roof had just given him a lesson. It had shown him it could take what he loved most. And it had shown him he was powerless to stop it.
He was not a watchman. He was a specimen in a jar. And the thing outside was the scientist, taking notes.